


(Almost) How The Ghosts Stole Christmas

by Backwoulds



Category: Supernatural
Genre: An X-File Case, Attempted Murder, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Dean Winchester Makes Mistakes, F/M, Gen, Ghosts, Ghosts of Christmas, Haunted Houses, Inspired by The X-Files, Lover's Pact, Multi, Murder, Murder-Suicide, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Sam Winchester Makes Mistakes, we all make mistakes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:20:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22110940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backwoulds/pseuds/Backwoulds
Summary: "So get this: During Christmas of 1917, a young couple living in this house in Maryland agreed to a lovers' pact, one killing the other and the remaining one committing suicide. Apparently, they could not stand the thought of being alone after the other died and during the afterlife; they wanted to spend all eternity together. Now,” Sam claims, “they haunt the house every Christmas Eve."Sound familiar?If you watched "The X Files," it should. What would happen if you, Sam, and Dean decided to investigate the case yourselves?
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & You, Sam Winchester & You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. A Cold, Cold Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Although this is teeeechnically a crossover with The X Files, Mulder and Scully make no appearances in this picture.
> 
> I watched this episode on Christmas with my family, and it just seemed rife for the taking. So here it is:
> 
> (Almost) How the Ghosts Stole Christmas--Winchester Style.
> 
> [Not set in any specific season, but may reference events post-S9 later]

It’s freezing. No, screw that—it’s BELOW freezing, and here you are, sitting in the driveway of an abandoned house like an absolute jackass waiting for the Impala to pull up beside you for absolutely no good reason. It’s Christmas Eve (not that you _care_ about Christmas, of course, but it’s the principle of the thing), and you’d rather be anywhere than sitting in front of this decaying old mansion waiting for the Winchesters to show up over an hour after they said they’d be here.

The roar of a nearby engine shakes you out of your bitter reverie.

Well, speak of the devils. Baby pulls up beside you, all flash and speed, and screeches to a halt. She sits there for a moment before her headlights turn off and the familiar figures of Sam and Dean fling open their doors and crawl out of the car, shaking the inevitable road fatigue out of their bodies.

You kill your engine, which also kills your only source of heat, and zip up your coat in order to step out into the cold. Jesus fuck, it’s really frigid out here. A nasty wind picks up and cuts through all of your layers, stinging your ears and eyes and chilling your fingers straight to the bone in an instant.

“You guys were supposed to be here an hour ago,” you shout into the darkness, taking a moment to breath futilely into your hands in order to restore some semblance of feeling to them. You really should have packed gloves.

“Yeah, well, Super Nav over here managed to get us lost three separate times,” Dean grumbles, pulling his jacket around himself as tight as he can manage.

Sam, looking flustered, doesn’t seem as bothered by the cold. Maybe it hasn’t hit him yet. Or maybe he really has been a Moose this entire time. He comes around the front of the car to stand next to you and get away from his brother. “Dean, I told you this house isn’t on any GPS or maps I could find.”

“Yeah, well then we should have come out here in the friggin’ daylight,” Dean grumbles, joining the two of you in front of Baby’s still-warm hood.

Sam shakes his head. “That defeats the whole purpose. These ghosts supposedly only appear the _night_ of Christmas Eve, never during the day.”

“Gee, that’s convenient.”

“Remind me again why we’re here,” you interject, having no patience for their sibling rivalry at the moment. You can almost feel the mercury dropping the longer you stand out here.

Sam rolls his shoulders back and takes a scholarly stance as Dean rolls his eyes. “This place has been the site of at least a dozen murder-suicides dating back to 1917, all taking place on Christmas Eve. Supposedly the place is haunted, and people say the ghosts of the original inhabitants of the house are responsible.”

“Why?” you ask, quickly losing what little patience you do have.

"That’s exactly how they died. I’m guessing we’re dealing with vengeful spirits here, though there have been other theories…” Sam trails off, looking toward the dark, vacant house.

“Look, if we’re going to go over your dissertation on this, Sammy, can we at least do it inside where maybe the windchill isn’t going to kill us?” Dean whines. Sam shoots Dean a look that could kill, but you’re definitely with Dean on this one.

“I say if we’re going to stay, we either get inside the house one way or another, or climb back into the car and put the heater on,” you say, tucking your hands into your armpits. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not get frostbite if I can help it.”

Sam rolls his eyes at the two of you and starts walking toward the front door of the house. “Fine. Let’s go inside and at least get a sense of what we’re dealing with.”

“ _If_ we’re dealing with anything,” you call after him, jogging to keep up. “How do you know this isn’t just a local legend? Or another ‘Hell House-Tulpa’ situation we just have to shut down on the internet?”

“I don’t,” Sam replies. “Hence the stake out.” He’s about ten yards out from the porch at this point.

You turn back to look at Dean, who rolls his eyes at you so hard you think they might fall out the back of his head. That must have been one fun car ride they shared on the way here.

This isn’t how you’d expected to celebrate Christmas, that much is for sure. Granted, you and the boys aren’t really the “yuletide carols by the fire” type, but you have your own seasonal rituals (most of which include alcohol and repeat viewings of “Scrooged”), and not a single one of them involves a live-action version of the Haunting of Hill House in negative 12 degree weather. You are neither up for, nor down with, this in the least.

You catch up to Sam at the porch, followed quickly by Dean. The three of you stand there in front of the door, windows shut and shuttered, staring at each other across the white puffs of your breaths.

“What’s the plan?” Dean asks.

Sam reaches forward and jiggles the handle. Surprise, surprise—it’s locked. The door barely moves in its frame. Sam’s hand drops to his side and he sighs.

“Sorry, did you really think that was gonna—” You’re cut off when the door swings open of its own accord, its hinges screaming bitterly in protest.

“That door was just locked,” Dean says, pointing emphatically at the now-open doorway. Sam nods.

“Yeah,” he replies, sounding a little breathless.

“Son of a bitch,” you add, more for dramatic effect than anything else.

You and the Winchesters take another moment to stare at each other before Sam speaks again, his gaze drifting toward the dark hallway inside. “So you really think this is just a local legend now?” You shake off the feeling that tells you to run, run fast and never look back and stand your ground, waiting for Sam to make the call. One glance at Dean tells you he’s doing the same thing. Never a good sign.

Sam sighs and looks at the two of you before taking a step across the threshold. Your stomach drops. C’mon. You can’t _really_ be doing this, can you?

“I think it opened for us for a reason,” Sam mutters, taking another step into the house. You swallow and take a step after him.

“The better to eat you with, my dear,” you murmur as you all head inside.


	2. Deck the Halls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You, Sam, and, Dean are exploring the foyer when you hear footsteps coming from upstairs. You're not actually about to walk into a ghost hunt with no salt and no iron, are you?

The hallway is just as dark and dank as you’d expect it to be, complete with the requisite dust and cobwebs that seem to exist in every classic haunted house in existence. You pull out your flashlight and click it on, doing a quick sweep across the foyer. Yep, ticks all the boxes: cloth-covered furniture, huge chandelier, giant windows facing the outside that are just dirty enough to let in a dim filter of light that makes everything eerie as hell. You turn to your right to check out the anteroom there when your flashlight flickers and goes out.

“Yeah, that bodes well,” Dean mumbles.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” Sam snorts, pulling out his own flashlight.

“Not scared,” Dean retorts, taking a step backward, straight into a curtain of cobwebs. He practically seizes in his attempt to get it off himself as you and Sam both look on in amazement. When he calms down, he sweeps his hands over himself and tries to get grounded. “Squicked. This place is nasty, Sam.”

"Nasty doesn’t even cover it,” you agree, running your finger over an entryway table near your side. There’s about an inch of dust, and now a good chunk of that is on your finger. You make a face and try to wipe the dirt off on your jeans, but now everything about this place has you feeling unclean. “Dude, let’s get out of here.”

“What if it’s a legitimate haunting?” Sam argues, moving his flashlight across both your and Dean’s faces. You each put up a hand to block the light.

“By the looks of things, nobody has been here for a very, _very_ long time,” you say, motioning to the dust you’ve just disturbed and the oodles of spiderwebs everywhere. “If it’s a legitimate haunting, I’d say nobody is in immediate danger of getting ghosted, so let’s just go home and come back in the daytime and take care of things when we can at least see how many types of hepatitis we’re walking into.”

As if on cue, the door slams shut behind you. All three of you freeze as a cold silence envelops you. Sam slowly moves his flashlight to the door and focuses its light on the knob.

“What was that about nobody being in immediate danger?” Dean whispers, his eyes darting around the entryway and clocking all of the entrances as quickly as he possibly can.

“It’s nothing,” Sam insists, walking between you and Dean with a cocksure stride. “Just the wind—the same thing that opened the door in the first place.”

“The _locked_ door, you mean?” you ask, falling in step behind him. “The one you said opened for us for a _reason_?”

Sam gets to the door and tries the knob. Of course it doesn’t budge. He chuckles to himself in disbelief and tries it again, but it’s still no good. He turns to look at you and Dean, who are both staring at him in a mix of anger and shock.

“What now, Einstein?” Dean demands.

Sam takes a moment to adjust to this turn of events, trying to shake off the chill that’s set on him that he’s managed to convince himself has more to do with the climate than with ghosts. “I guess we hunt,” he says, with a chipper bravado that leaves both you and Dean wanting to slap the stupid out of him.

“Dude, we’ve got nothing,” Dean protests, refusing to move from where he’s standing, less he stumble back into another nest of cobwebs. “No salt, no iron, no guns—”

“If it’s a haunting, what good are guns gonna do, Dean?” Sam replies snottily. He’s got a point. You cast a glance to the older Winchester and wait for his reply.

Dean drops his gaze to the ground and kicks at the dirt there. “Make me feel better, that’s what,” he grumbles, barely above a whisper.

You’re about to agree that you should at least have _something_ in hand before going any further into the house, but Sam is already on the stairwell, making his way to the second story.

“Come on, seriously?!” is all you can manage. Sam turns to look at you like you’re a child.

“If you want to stay down here, that’s fine. I generally wouldn’t suggest splitting up, but with a house this big…” Sam’s cut off by the very obvious sounds of footsteps upstairs. The three of you freeze.

“Did you hear that?” you ask, eyes as big as saucers and your voice little more than a hiss. Somehow, impossibly, Sam is still moving upward. “What the hell are you doing?” you demand, moving backwards until you and Dean are almost touching. “Let’s get the hell out of here until we’re actually armed!”

“You think a place like this doesn’t have iron everywhere?” Sam counters. “Fireplace pokers, light fixtures…” He gestures to the railing beside him. “Hell, the banister is wrought iron. Besides, it’s not like salt is going to save our asses if these things go ‘vengeful spirit’ on us. We need to do a salt-and-burn—”

Dean cuts him off. “Don’t say it like you’re being all cool.” He looks as white as a sheet.

Sam stares at him in disbelief. “You’re scared, aren’t you?” You turn to look at Dean and the expression on his face surprises you. He _is_.

“I am not scared,” he argues, looking back and forth between the two of you. “I’m _not._ I’m just not big on the idea of being locked in here empty-handed until whatever it is that’s here decides it’s time for a showdown.”

“Well,” Sam counters, “according to the lore…”

“God, I hate it when you say that,” you mumble to yourself.

“The only people who have ever been harmed by these spirits are couples. The murder-suicides, lover’s pacts, whatever you want to call them—they’ve all been married couples, mostly newlyweds, since Lyda and Maurice in 1917.”

“Lyda and Maurice?” Dean scoffs incredulously. “Great, he’s on a first-name basis with the ghosts now.”

“The point is, Dean, I’m pretty sure we’re safe. Anyone here a couple?” Sam’s voice has that irritating quality it always has when he’s right. You look at both men and sigh.

“Okay, say you’re right. Say the murder-suicides have all been couples,” you shrug your shoulders at Sam, eliciting an annoyed glare from him. “Who’s to say we’re not the first non-couple to be here on Christmas Eve since ’17?” Thankfully, Sam has no answer for that. “We could be in way more danger than you’re giving the situation credit for, and we still don’t have any way of protecting ourselves.”

The footsteps upstairs start up again, and Sam seems to forget the entire conversation you’ve all just had.

“I’m going up there,” he announces, moving up another step. “You two can either stay here and figure out how to call a locksmith without a signal—” Sure enough, you look at your phone and have neither cell nor data service. Motherfucker. “—or you can stop being idiots and come with me to see who's making that noise.”

You and Dean look at each other for a long moment before Sam starts moving again. You heave a heavy sigh and start up the stairs after him, Dean following shortly behind you. You turn to say something to him and see, very dimly, the figure of a woman standing in the anteroom you’d been about to explore when your flashlight went out.

“Holy crap,” you shriek, slamming your back against the wall behind you as though you’d melt into it. Both boys more or less do the same thing.

“What?” Sam shouts, sweeping his flashlight furiously across the foyer and the side rooms. “What did you see?”

You grab the flashlight from his hand and shine it directly where the woman had been standing. There’s nothing there but cobwebs and curtains. You shake your head, placing your hand against your pounding heart. “I swear, there was a woman there two seconds ago.”

Sam nods. “Yeah, I’m sure there was.” He takes the flashlight back from you. “Probably scoping us out.” You stare at Dean miserably as Sam once again begins his ascent. At this point, there’s no way you’re staying downstairs with Lydia, or Lyda, or whatever the hell her name was. You’re sticking with the boys, and you’ll grab a fireplace poker first chance you get.

The footsteps on the second story haven’t stopped. You’re all really going to do this, aren’t you? You are idiots for coming inside a haunted house without any of the tools you need.

And you feel like the biggest idiot of them all, because you had an entire hour sitting in your truck when you could have just driven away and spent your Christmas in a shitty motel off the interstate. 

Smart move, kid.


End file.
